


Richie Tozier: I Killed A Clown

by oscarisaac



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, in my heart he's alive too, richie tozier's coming out netflix standup special, with canon compliant I mean it's the sad ending I'm sorry everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 22:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oscarisaac/pseuds/oscarisaac
Summary: NETFLIX STAND-UPRICHIE TOZIER: I KILLED A CLOWN2017		VM14		1hAfter a traumatic loss and a near-death experience, comedian Richie Tozier is ready to talk humor and horror in his first ever stand-up special.PLAY		MY LISTStarring: Richie TozierGenres: Stand-Up Comedy, Irreverent Stand-Up Comedy, ComediesThis movie is: Offbeat, Irreverent, Witty
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 25
Kudos: 182





	Richie Tozier: I Killed A Clown

**“Alright, fuck it. Here goes nothing.**”

  
  
  


“TRASHMOUTH!”

“**Heard there was a party to crash.**”

“Is that the stripper I booked?”

“No, babe, it’s an ugly man.”

“**Fuck you, you--fuck, you’re, like, too perfect for me to even find a good insult.**”

“Babe? I changed my mind, he can stay.”

  
  
  


**A NETFLIX COMEDY SPECIAL**

  
  
  


“**Hey, everyone. Boy, you all look so… middle aged.**”

“Hey, Richie! How’s it going? Heard your Netflix show bombed.”

“**What happened to sticking to the fucking script?**”

“What script? You sent us a text telling us to play nice for you to film your entrance, and you mistyped _ entrance _!”

“D-don’t worry, you can cut all of your whining out later.”

“**Fuck, no. This is the one time I tell the whole fucking truth. I’m not cutting any of this out. I got nothing to lose, anyway.**”

  
  
  


**I KILLED A CLOWN**

  
  
  


_ ♪This ain't for the best _

_ My reputation's never been worse, so _

_ You must like me for me... _

_ We can't make _

_ Any promises now, can we, babe? _

_ But you can make me a drink…♪ _

GOOD EVENING! Good evening, all. 

Is that a ticket in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Alright, alright, here’s the thing. 

Before I start the show for real, there’s something you really should know. And it’s that I really, **really** like to begin all of my shows with **one joke** that is, just, timeless.

And, look - I’m the first to say that it’s a dumb joke. But it’s just so reliable, you know? It’s the _ mall Santa _ of jokes. Is it gonna deliver? Absolutely fucking not! But do kids go there all the time? You fucking **bet** they do.

And it’s so stupid - the idea that Santa would actually **come** at **your ** mall when you live in, like, fuck, **nowhere** \- that’s the name of the place, Fuck- **in** Nowhere. But like, yeah, it’s stupid, but what are these kids gonna do? Buy their own toys with their fancy 2008 economic crisis money? **Embark** on a **trip** to the **North Pole** ? The **real** Santa wouldn’t even answer the doorbell.

I mean.

I’d be scared shitless if I lived in a fucking **glacial wasteland** and someone **rang my doorbell**. 

_ R-R-Rudolph? Is that you? I-I-I’m sorry I said deviation from the norm will be punished unless it’s exploitable, I _ ** _swear_ ** _ it was a joke! _

Like, god, if that happened, my hair would go white which… is probably a sign that someone **did** embark on a trip to the North Pole after all, and yeah, **that’s** the only reason people get white hair is what I’m saying, you can file it under _ indisputable truths that are _ ** _definitely_ ** _ true, because an unpopular celebrity said so _. Much like what happened when Reagan was president.

So fuck it, if **that** dude got a second term you guys can believe **me** when I tell you what the cause of **white hair** is. _ Aw, man, your hair went white? Well, _ ** _maybe _ ** _ if you hadn't gotten the heebie jeebies... _

So, kids are stuck with mall Santas.

But here’s the thing: they fucking **love it**.

Kids are the most romantic people in the world, I fucking swear. **Nobody else** would love sitting on an old man’s lap and whisper their secret wishes in his ear while he sweats inside a red fat suit, but kids **eat that shit up** like it’s…

well, like it’s Christmas.

And that’s because there is more romantic spirit in a kid’s **pinky** than in any dumb romcom you watch to try and recapture what it felt like to be happy. Or, whatever, pretend I made a joke belittling some romantic comedy, I’ll go braindead if I actually have to spent any time coming up with one and pretending it’s original and _ oh so witty, ‘cause _ ** _real men_ ** _ mock romance all the time _ , like, yeah, that **sure as fuck ** is something **real **fun people do, right?

And I’m not saying kids are romantic the way, like, fucking Jane Austen is romantic. I’m saying kids will see a dumbass daisy and go, _ oh, hell yeah, that little fucker’s gonna tell me _ ** _all_ ** _ about my future _! 

So, sweaty old man with a fake beard? _ Let’s fucking _ ** _go_ ** _ , toddlers _!

But, then, you know, the question obviously arises, **what the fuck** am **I ** doing comparing **my ** favorite joke to mall Santas when all I’ve been saying is that only kids have, like, the **capacity** to enjoy that whole thing?

Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but

**I’m a 41 year old man.**

I could just… I could just think about what I was for Christmas. And then. Go buy it. At the mall.

But instead of doing that… I keep fucking… circling back to mall Santa and, like, metaphorically, to the mall Santa of jokes, even though… I’m a fucking **professional comedian** . Like… _ wouldn’t it be the right time to _ ** _up my game a bit_ ** **?**

  
  
  


No.

And the reason why I do that - and, believe me, this is, like, the fucking **height** of self-perception for me - is that… have you seen **stores** in **December** ? Dude, they’re fucking **terrifying**! I don’t wanna fucking deal with that!

Plus, if I dump all of my shit on mall Santa, I get this fun free prize, which is getting to have... or **pretending to have** some emotional detachment from the things I **actually fucking want** . It’s like, whatever, I didn’t even want it, **it’s not that deep**, like you tell your Sims when you take away the ladder and they drown.

So with mall Santa, instead of going to the store that’s literally **next to mall Santa** and getting your stupid Christmas present, you dump **every** responsibility on him. _ Aw, Santa, there’s this thing I really really want for Christmas and it’s _ ** _to know what fucking forms I have to fill when I go to the post office, so the employees won’t verbally abuse me_ ** _ , but they don’t sell that at _ Bed, Bath&Beyond _ \- I didn’t go there, I just checked on their website - so can you take care of that for me _?

Like, **no**, he fucking can’t, just take care of it yourself like any normal fucking adult would do!

Or, okay, other example, _ aw, mall Santa, I really _ ** _really _ ** _ like my friend but I’m afraid I’m gonna ruin our friendship if pee pee poo poo, _

why don’t you go to _ Blockbuster _ and **rent some balls?**

You don’t even need to **grow** a pair, you can just rent them for one night and then drop them off. Or… get a monthly subscription or… whatever, dumb metaphor. 

So now. I’m gonna start the show for real. And I’m gonna tell you exactly how I drove _ Blockbuster _ out of business.

I just need one thing real quick. I need… to make a poll. 

Okay, here we go.

Hi. Yeah, you I’m singling you out.

What’s your name?

…

Chris. Okay, wow, speak of Christmas… Okay, Chris. This is a very important question. I want you to focus. And I want **all of you** to **stare** at this guy. 

Chris. When you bought a ticket to this show. Did you think you were gonna enjoy it?

…

YEAH, THAT’S WHAT **YOUR** **MOM** SAID LAST--**I GUESS**? I ask you if you think you’ll enjoy my fucking show and you say **I GUESS**? WHAT KIND OF BULLSHIT ANSWER IS _I GUESS_? Just fucking say _yeah, man_! You’re in the **front row**, what are the people in the back here for then, **murdering **me?

Oh, yeah, **laugh** at the fact that my _ mom _ joke didn’t land, **I’m** the one who landed on your mother--yeah, your **collective** mother; you as an audience have **one** mother.

Surprise, I brought you all here because you’re **all** siblings, and **I’m your father**.

You ever met a bigger failed joke than people’s fathers?

No, don’t even fucking laugh at that one, shut up! Only my fucking… my fucking ghostwriter took credit for relatable father jokes like you haven’t heard this a thousand times already, come on.

Yeah. You heard it fucking right, my **ghostwriter**. 

This right here? First stand-up show I write myself in the **longest** fucking time. I didn’t even have hair on my shoulders last time I performed my own material. 

And it’s really, fucking, **apt** that I had a ghostwriter, because my life in LA felt like a horror story.

Last year, when I went back to my hometown, I went through literal hell. I was, like, literally forced to face my worst nightmares. And it still wasn’t as scary as living in LA for twenty years.

Do you know what’s scarier than escaping from a building that’s **collapsing on your head** ? It’s when you’re doing a show in a bar in LA and you tell a joke about your girlfriend catching you masturbating to her friend’s pictures on Facebook, and PEOPLE **GENUINELY **LAUGH!

This sounds like the beginning of… of a bit about my life in LA, but I’d rather wax my balls while listening to Ed Sheeran

than do a bit where… _ I whine… because my life… as a mildly known… and _ ** _not at all _ ** _ respected celebrity in LA was _ ** _so_ ** _ shit… all I did was get invited to parties and do drugs with Ellen Degeneres… _ As if! As if lesbians were interested in doing anything with me other than steal my shirts.

Plus, none of you actually gives a shit about parties in LA. You’re not here to envy me. You’re here

because I got something to say

and I need the attention **so **bad

that, to get it, I’m willing to put to test the **very fine** line between _ empathy _ and _ pity _.

If you walk out of here tonight calling me a _ poor bastard _ , **I still win!**

**I** don’t give a shit! You heard what Taylor Swift said!

_ ♪My reputation's never been worse, so♪ _

Last time I was on stage performing jokes **I didn’t even write** , I threw up! If you get out of here calling me a _ poor bastard _, it’s a fucking improvement.

And, like, I don’t know if you know **this**, but. I was on trial. For muder. About a year ago.

Don’t think I can’t see half of you eyeing the emergency exists, and the other half just **dying** to get their phones out and film me as I **admit to it all**. May I remind you that there are cameras everywhere?

You can keep it in your pants, thank you very much.

‘Cause, actually… I already confessed!

**Ha** , gotcha. Yeah, I was on trial for a murder **I committed**. 

Now, let’s put a pin on it and hold that thought for a second. 

I wanna talk about the theories of comedy. 

There are three main theories on how comedy works. _ Incongruity _ , _ relief _ , and _ superiority _ . I used the last one, earlier, to get a laugh out of you - I was like, _ ha ha, lesbians want to rob me, _

and you **laughed** , didn’t you? You **loved** feeling like you were better than me. _ Well, my life is pretty shit, but at least I’m _ ** _not_ ** _ this pathetic excuse of a human being _! 

**Well** , bet you’re not laughing **now** , now that you’re trapped in very narrow rows of chairs with a **murderer** on the loose, and not just that - a murderer who **fucked your mom**!

Before you all shit your pants, no, I’m not an actual, like, serial killer. This is actually a very serious matter that I should **very much** not be laughing about. Also, if it’s of any consolation, the title of this special doesn’t refer to **this** . Like, it would be fucking hilarious if I were actually **bragging** about it, but I’m not **actually evil**.

So, I’m gonna explain what happened. Maybe a bunch of you already know. I mean, I’m assuming the reason why this venue was sold out is that at least a fraction of you was like, _ hey, isn’t that the comedian who was implicated in a _ ** _horrible fucking accident_ ** _ last year? _ Because there’s **no way** I have **this** many fans.

**MURDER!** I already was not in the most awesome mental state when it happened. Just a few days before… _ my girlfriend had caught me masturbating to her friend’s pictures on Facebook _.

No, I wasn’t in the best mental state because I’d just found out that my childhood best friend had died. My strongest suit, you ask? **Definitely** _putting people at ease_.

I think you can start picturing why 2016 **wasn’t** my best year.

Anyways, that day I didn’t, like, wake up actively looking forward to a **good** , **juicy** murder. So you can imagine my **absolute fucking horror** when an **actual psychopath** on the **actual loose** decided to stab my friend then **try to kill ** another one of my friends, and of course I decided to do what anyone would do and hit him with the first thing I could find, and that thing **turned out to be an axe**!

AND YOU TEND TO DIE WHEN YOU GET HIT BY AN AXE!

Like, I know victim-blaming is bad, but if you get hit by an axe and die, you were kinda looking for it.

Cool, okay, we got the… murder misunderstanding cleared up. Ha. Would have hated it if it had… dampened the mood, you know. Ha ha. Should we ask for the check and, maybe… go back to my place?

I will say one last thing about LA. People in LA are very positive. Very upbeat.

Most of them are psychopaths.

And you never know which ones will turn out to be psychopaths, so a good rule of thumb is to assume everybody is. Plus, it’s virtually impossible to distinguish the ones who **are** from the ones who are **not** , ‘cause, like, in **any** case, if you’re getting a handjob in a club in LA, there’s a 98% chance that the person whose hands are on your dick also has, like, blood on their hands.

**I’m included in this narrative**.

But there **is** a subset of psychopaths you can easily recognize, and it’s those people who scatter signs around their house to remind themselves how to function like normal human beings.

You’ve seen these signs. A lot of them have the word _ hope _ . Or _ faith _ . Or _ wine _ . But the most popular of them all has three words. _ Live, Love _…

** _LAUGH_ **. Good boys! You get a Scooby Snack.

But! There’s **another** version of that sign that’s **way** more fun. And you all know what it is, you just can’t really… **think** of it right now. But, really. _ Live, Love, Laugh _ ... **Or**. I’ll give you a hint. Fuck Marry

** _KILL_ **. 

See? You fucking knew that. It’s all about **life** , and **fun** , and now my ghostwriter would make a joke about, like, fuckin’, “marrying” and “killing” being the same thing or something, whatever, I’m not **that** cheap.

This bit was all just a really stupidly contrived way for me to start talking about fun and fear, and maybe another thing. But we’ll get to that later, when you think you’re safe.

I mentioned the three main theories of comedy, earlier, but nobody **really** knows how comedy works, because you can’t actually find a **formula** that tells you what jokes will work, right?

WRONG! I figured it all out at **thirteen years old** , baby! Seems like Kant **can’t** actually get it.

It’s like physics. All their theories are wrong. But physicists aren’t dumb, so here’s what they do: they use those theories anyways. Because they’re incorrect, but they still work. So we’re all gonna leave that _ comedy can’t be explained; I’m very smart _ shit behind us.

Broadly speaking - boy, I sound like a fucking **scholar** \- broadly speaking, comedy relies on punchlines, right? A joke is like a story, where you get a setup, a beginning, a middle and an end. The road between the beginning and the end is called a _ story arc _ , and every story that **works** has an arc. You can’t just have the setup, beginning and middle, and then not have an ending or punchline, otherwise nobody will laugh.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**See?**

_ Relief comedy theory _ says one thing that’s interesting, which is that setting up an arc, **however** short, means creating tension, and then, ** _boom_ **, punchline, and release.

Horror, though. Horror sets up the arc, creates tension, and then **holds** it. _ Old MacDonald had a farm, E-I-E-I _

  
  
  
  
  
  


So, things that are comedy: when someone goes for a high five and you pretend you’re also going for a high five, but **right** before collision you **dodge** their hand, like this, you kinda slither under their hand like a worm, and you yell **WORM!**

On the other hand, things that are horror: when you go for a high five, and the other guy ignores you. At first. And you’re there, like, _ oh, yeah, no, there’s--like--I’m holding my hand up in the air because the sun got in my eyes, I’m not crying _.

The premises are the same, right? You got some dumbass going for a high five, and this dumbass has **expectations** of how the experience should go, because everyone goes into life with expectations of how everything should go - including the people who appoint as their leader someone who says he’s gonna violate human rights and then complain because they didn’t think he was actually gonna do it.

People have expectations all the fucking time, and if these expectations are **fulfilled** , **then** they feel comfortable. So, in a way, it’s not just about expectations but **needs** , too, because **everyone all the time** needs to be **comfortable**. It’s why we invented those, like, metallic spider-y things you use to scratch your head. 

So when you go for a high five you’re like, _ okay, I’m doing this, this is happening, and I need this whole thing to go _ ** _this_ ** _ way, so I can comfortably go on with my day _ . And both horror and comedy are like. _ Hello. I bet you don’t come here often, or you would have seen me coming _.

But **that’s** when they diverge. Because comedy’s like, _ oh, you think I’m going for a high five? _And then slaps you on the ass.

But horror. Horror is like, _ oh, you think I’m going for a high five? _

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


And you’re left there. 

And you’re like, _ well, fuck _ ** _you_ ** _ ! I needed this to happen, and you failed me. And now _ ** _nothing_ ** _ is happening, and I need for _ ** _something_ ** _ to happen. I don’t even care about the high five anymore, I just need _ ** _something_ ** _ . When will the wait end? _ ** _When will it end? WHEN WILL IT FUCKING END?_ **

And it does end, duh. Even horror movies can’t hold the tension forever, because then they’d stop being entertaining. And that’s when you get the jumpscare, like, for example, the killer comes out.

The jumpscare is like, _ aw, I’m sorry, man, let’s go for that high five _, and then smacks you on the ass, but you have hemorrhoids.

The thing with relief theory, though, is that it actually fucking sucks. Because relief theory says that comedy creates tension and then resolves it, but that’s only true when **you’re** then one who goes for a high five first because you wanted to be a dick and do the worm - because then that’s **you ** creating setup, beginning, etcetera fucking etcetera. But if it’s the other person going for a high five, you’re just _ carpe dieming _. 

Comedy and horror don’t just **create** tension. They **tap **into a tension that’s already there.

The problem is that comedy and horror need to release that tension, but real life? Real life doesn’t have the moral obligation to be **entertaining** . You can just keep being uncomfortable all the time, **forever** ! And that, fellas, is how you turn 41 and realize you’ve spent half of your life just **begging** for something to happen and in the meantime you’ve driven _ Blockbuster _ to the **fucking** ground.

My life in LA was a fucking nightmare, but it didn’t just spontaneously become the most **boring** installment of _ Scary Movie _ when I **moved** there, oh, boy, no. 

Because, like, say you’re thirteen, and you feel like **so bad** all the **fucking** time for reasons there’s **no way** you can unpack. But also

you need attention

all the fucking time. And one day,

in a desperate,

**desperate **attempt

at stemming your deep-seated fear of being forgotten by everyone you’ve ever known and loved as **soon** as you’re not in their immediate field of view,

you tell

one of your friends

that you fucked their mom.

And for one, shiny moment, everything’s alright.

So you do that again. And again, and again. And then you do **all of that** , again, **ALSO** the next **minute**.

And you discover that whenever you do that, people do in fact, shockingly, I know, **give you attention**. Usually it’s to tell you to shut the fuck up,

but it’s attention.

Oh, _ you found the _ ** _perfect_ ** _ formula. _ You figured it **all **out.

Let me summarize it once and for all for you. **You have a deep, terrifying fear of being left behind.**

**So, you tell your friends that you have sex with their mothers**.

Just… _ ah _ . **Genius**.

My friends… honestly, I’ve got to give them credit for how **well** they took that. 

I saw them all again when I went back to my hometown, last year, and I love them so much, but I’d **completely forgotten** about them.

I don’t know why. I mean, I do: **EVIL ALIEN MAGIC**.

But I didn’t know - boy, this is gonna be, like, **so** corny - I didn’t know you could keep loving people even when you didn’t remember them.

**BLERGH!** Thank you. Had to reset the moment.

You know, like, I didn’t even stalk them on social media or anything, because, again, **didn’t remember** . But when I saw them again I was like, _ oh, past me was a moron, but a moron with _ ** _taste_ ** **. **

I don’t think they ever found me funny. I talked about my dick **WAY** TOO MUCH for them to find me funny. My friend Stan would have literally **paid money** to shut me up. _ Oh, mall Santa, _ ** _please_ ** _ give me some really strong tape for Richie Tozier’s mouth _… 

But joke’s on them, because they’ll still watch this when it comes out, so YOU’VE PLAYED RIGHT INTO MY HANDS, **BOOMERS** ! RICHIE TOZIER _ ONE _ , BONE-CHILLING FEAR OF BEING FORGOTTEN _ ZERO _!

You see, now, how comedy and horror have always been the **bestest** of buds.

So, now that we got **those** covered, it’s time to talk about the evil third twin. Fuck yeah, fellas, rejoyce, ‘cause it’s time

for Richie Tozier

to talk

about love.

So, the thing about _ your mom _ jokes is--OH, DID YOU THINK I WAS DONE WITH THEM? Here in Toziertown it’s Christmas all **year**, baby!

The thing about _ your mom _ jokes is this.

If you feel uncomfortable and you need something to break the tension, **you** can be the one who breaks it if you just say something that makes it look like you had it **all covered** from the beginning. 

So, you’re thirteen, and you have a stupid secret teenage crush on one of your friends. And sometimes you feel like whatever’s going on between the two of you is **way** too charged for you to handle, and every time your friend looks at you you kind of want to throw something - I tried that, once, and I’m sorry to break it to you, but **Batman** ? Doesn’t fly well! Also, super cheap! It fucking **ripped** open as soon as I threw it.

But also, every time your friend **doesn’t** look at you, you feel like you **might actually DIE** . So, like any perfectly adjusted person would do, you get this knee-jerk reaction that makes you yell, _ YOUR MOM _!

Then your friend gets super fucking mad, and suddenly you have this friendship where neither of you has any idea what to even **do** if you’re not insulting each other all the time and seeing each other’s mom for a quickie on a daily basis. And, fine, you’re thirteen. Nobody at thirteen knows how to be **normal**. Thirteen is that age where all the romance you had in you as a kid suddenly evaporates and you’re still a kid, but now you have the empathy and emotional maturity of a racist grandfather.

But, you know me by now, none of you will be surprised to hear that we were on the absolute fucking same bullshit twenty-odds years later.

And it’s like, _ so _ ** _I’m_ ** _ fucking _ ** _your_ ** _ mom, and _ ** _you’re_ ** _ fucking _ ** _my _ ** _ mom, shouldn’t we just cut down the middle man and fuck each other? _

That would have been… **such** a good fucking idea, for **several ** reasons, it would have been **peachy** if we’d just thought of that, because, you know, I never wanted to fuck his mom. Or any mom. Or grandma.

Or woman - just ask any of my ex girlfriends.

Because for twenty-seven years of my life I was in love with one man, and that man’s name…

was God.

**I’m catholic.**

YO, DID SOMEONE FUCKING **CHEER** FOR THAT? Oh my god, I’m not catholic, I was **fucking ** with you, his name was **Eddie**.

  
  


Now it’s time I told you what happened when I went back to my hometown for our middle school reunion.

In 2016, a man from Derry called Adrian Mellon was, I’ll let you guess, 3, 2, 1, murdered.

I think I’ll sit down to tell you about this, actually. Watch Netflix call this **stand-up** special “offbeat and irreverent” now. 

Adrian Mellon was thrown off a bridge and he died. Murdered by a clown.

Yeah. An **evil** **fucking clown from hell**.

The motherfucker had always been there since I was, you know, thirteen - making my life a fucking nightmare. But he was fucking good at hiding. So good we’d all forgotten he was ever there at all, but that’s when he decided to show his face again, and Adrian Mellon was killed.

All of my old friends had moved out of Derry, except my friend Mike. So we all receive a phone call from Mike, who says, _ Richie. We’re putting the band back together. _

And I say, _ oh, man, don’t talk that way around here, my old lady - she’ll kill me _.

Don’t wanna kill your **expectations**, but my old lady in this scenario isn’t Aretha Franklin. She’s, like, my agent, who’s a dude. The metaphor already stopped making sense but i’m gonna milk it for another couple of lines.

Mike says, _ ma’am, you gotta understand that this is a lot bigger than any domestic problems you might be experiencing _.

And then I THROW UP ON STAGE, and my agent is like, _ OH, FUCK _ ** _NO_ ** _ IT ISN’T BIGGER! _

But, much like in _ Blues Brothers _, I join the band anyway. And we’re not even thinking about the clown, at this point. We have dinner, and I get hammered because I’ve seen Eddie for the first time in twenty years and I feel like I just snorted expired glue.

And then, after dinner, we find out that Stan is dead. My friend Stan, who wanted to buy scotch tape for my mouth. And **that’s** when Mike decides it’s a good idea to also tell us, _ hey, remember the clown? We never defeated it and it’s going to kill us _. 

And that - that is when I realized that THIS WASN’T A REUNION! 

It was the **one** thing maladjusted adults fear **the most**.

It was an intervention.

I’ve got to explain the clown to you, though, because I know I can’t just be like, _ yeah, there’s a clown and it’s a creature from hell _ . The clown is… the clown is the king of the sewers. Yeah, had a fucking **lair** in the sewers and all, like a supervillain.

It fucking lived in **filth** and tried to convince us that **we** were dirty, that’s what it fucking did. And we believed him, because especially when you’re a kid you tend to listen to father figures.

And **that’s** how you make a good father joke, so suck it, Patrick Swayze.

**Patrick Swayze was the ghost in the movie ** ** _Ghost_ ** **, by the way.**

So we’ve got to defeat the clown once and for all before it kills us. **All** of us, not just me, because the clown is out to get us all. But we can’t face it, so we go with Plan B. And Plan B is Ancient Native American Ritual, because that makes **sense** to us.

Ever stolen a ritual? Yeah… don’t.

Turns out that ain’t the best idea when you’re trying to kill **a clown that lives in the sewers** . But it’s not like there’s a fucking _ Idiot’s Guide to Killing Clowns _.

At this point we think we can’t face the clown but, turns out, that’s actually the **only** way to kill the clown, so maybe **we’re** the idiots who should be writing a Guide.

In the middle of this, I kill a guy, axe, stabbing, we covered that. Just to add to the fun, you know, those days were already so fucking **delightful**. 

So, me and my friends, we face the clown. Scariest thing I’ve ever fucking done, until I realize that the clown ain’t **shit** . _ Wah, wah, I know your secret, Richie _ , yeah, shut up, you sloppy fucking bitch, who the fuck are you? As long as we feared it, it stayed alive. So we mocked it until it fucking **died**.

The clown told us we were dirty and we believed it, because our lives were **shit ** already so not much of a leap, right? Well, not any fucking more. And this would be a good setup for a joke, I’m sure you’d love a joke right now, but I’m exercising my life to be fucking boring. It’s a **really ** good time to make a joke and I don’t wanna fuck make one, because for **once** in my fucking life I get to say I’m miserable without getting a laugh out of it! Stan is dead. A building collapsed on our heads and now Eddie, the great love of my fucking life, is gone, too. It took me twenty-seven years to kill a fucking clown and I’m just some comedian from Maine but still I’m the one who gets to walk out of every crime scene I’ve ever been in and has a moral fucking obligation to do something with my life, so fuck the clown and fuck perennial Christmas! I'm done being scared! Did you think me throwing up on stage was the lowest I could get, public breakdown-wise? Then you were underestimating how much of a poor bastard I am, but what did I say? Richie Tozier _ one _ , bone chilling fear of being forgotten _ zero _! I'M FUCKING FREE. I'M GRIEVING AND I'M FREE.

Remember earlier, when I was talking about horror and comedy? Yeah, fuck it, you remember. And I was, like, _ at some point the tension must be broken, and that’s when, for example, _ ** _the killer comes out_ ** _ . _

**Hi. I’m out, now.**

  
  
  


Horror can’t hold the tension for too long, but comedy can hold it even less. Which sounds dumb now that I just made a joke I set up, like, four hours ago.

But I set it up, and then I let you forget about it, and then, _ boom _ , tension, punchline, zip, zap, done. Comedy can’t hold onto the tension for too long because it can never reach the point where people are, like, _ please, I don’t care what happens, I just want it to end _.

Because, then, when you get the punchline, you just feel relieved.

That’s why _ The Shining _ isn’t funny. Tension, tension, tension, happy ending, **sure**, but at that point you just kind of want to hug Shelley Duvall,

and if you don’t think she carried that movie on her shoulders, hate to break it to you but you’re just fucking **wrong**. Yeah, ladies, cheer for that, I might just let you steal my shirt later, 

if you just let me keep my coat so I don’t actually **die** when I get out in the cold.

When it ends, you feel relieved. And that’s what I feel now that the worst fucking joke of my life had ended. I KILLED A CLOWN AND I AM GAY! And what I feel is relief.

  
  
  


Thank you! Thank you very much. I’ve been

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**screwing your mom.**

_ ♪'Cause I like you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ Yeah, I want you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ Is it too soon to do this yet? _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate (delicate) _

_ 'Cause I like you _

_ Is it cool that I said all that? _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ Is it chill that you're in my head? _

_ (Isn't it? Isn't it?) _

_ 'Cause I know that it's delicate _

_ (Isn't it?) _

_ (Delicate) _

_ Yeah, I want you _

** _Is it cool that I said all that_ **

_ (Isn't it?) _

** _Is it too soon to do this yet?_ **

_ (Isn't it? Isn't it?) _

** _'Cause I know that it's delicate_ **

_ (Isn't it?) _

** _Delicate_ ** _ ♪ _

  
  
  


“Wow, I get a script this time? Fancy.”

“What can I say? I’m—”

“**One** line?”

“There’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure you can do it.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but this sounds like it’s some corny full-circle bullshit for you to wrap up the whole thing. Oh, I’m right, am I?”

“...no.”

“I’m right! You know what? Good for you. Just help me take this bad boy down. I’m finding needles everywhere.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Bev, where do I put these nuts?”

“Fuck off, Richie.”

“My apologies. _ Darling Mrs. Hanscom, where shall I put these shiny balls _?”

“Red box on the floor. No, not that one - the burgundy one. Yeah, that.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Are you seriously trying to remove the star by yourself? I’m literally right here.”

“You broke the one we had last year because you tried to wear it as a **glove**, I’m not letting you near one of these ever again.”

“_ Touchè. _”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Hey, Richie?”

“‘Sup, Marsh?”

“Dumbass. Did you have fun?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it time for my stupid line, now?”

“Kill it.”

“Happy New Year…”

“Happy--”

“...Loser.”

“You **had **to fucking add that, didn’t you?”

“Once a Loser…”

  
  



End file.
